


Angstober 2019

by themadmage



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angstober, Betrayal, Codependency, Guilt, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Lie Low At Lupin's (Harry Potter), Manipulation, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Suicide, Warnings May Change, We're just getting started and these are going to hurt, tags will be added as each one shot is written so check them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-11-10 14:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20853443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themadmage/pseuds/themadmage
Summary: A series of one shots written for Angstober. Angst. Chapter titles are the prompts, and individual descriptions will be in beginning author's notes.List of prompts originally posted by @_Asaiku. I found it reposted in a Facebook group, so I'm not totally sure where it was originally shared, but the photo is watermarked.





	1. I Can't Do This Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus Lupin wrote his final letter to Harry Potter.

Remus Lupin put down his quill and cast a spell to dry the ink before rolling the parchment and sending the owl. They'd been told not to send owls, but the Death Eaters wouldn't learn anything useful from this one.

* * *

Harry Potter had been having an awful summer. Following the death of his godfather, the death that he had inadvertently caused, he had been forced to return to the relative safety of the blood wards at Privet Drive. After the Order had told the Dursleys of Sirius' death, they had had no reason to be kind to him and no sensitivity for his grief. For the most part, they stayed out of each others' way. Harry took his meals in his room as much as possible, and did any chores the Dursleys gave him quickly so he could return to his dubious sanctuary.

With nothing else to occupy him, Harry was left with his thoughts. Grief mingled with self-blame, nearly paralyzing him as he thought about how he'd failed his godfather and his friends who had been injured in the Department of Mysteries. The only emotion which cut through his grief was anger, and he had anger to spare. He was angry at Snape and Kreacher for leading him to believe that the ill-fated "rescue" mission was necessary. He was angry at himself for believing the stupid vision. He was angry at Voldemort and the Death Eaters for, well, everything. And he was angry at Dumbledore and his friends for leaving him alone. He was angry because _yet again_, the headmaster had told everyone not to send owls for security purposes. Harry understood, better than he had last summer at any rate, but he'd been left alone to attempt to process the most difficult and tragic experience to date in his too-eventful life, and it hurt. 

It had only been two and a half weeks since he'd left Hogwarts, but he'd been told not to expect any mail until he was to leave Privet Drive, and the grief slowed the time. It felt like forever.

Isolation was not good for grief.

The tapping of an owl at the window, interrupting Harry's latest round of brooding, was so unexpected that it nearly startled himself out of his chair. He moved to the window cautiously, as though he expected the owl to realize it had the wrong house and fly away. Mrs. Figg apparently knew people in the magical world who could send owls. It didn't, though. Harry didn't recognize the owl, which made him nervous, but he opened the window for it anyway. The unfamiliar owl dropped a scroll on Harry's desk and left immediately, apparently not needing a reply. After a nervous glance at the parchment, and checking that his wand was in his pocket, Harry tentatively picked it up.

Nothing happened, so it didn't seem to be a trap from the Death Eaters. Likely they thought he wouldn't fall for a hidden portkey twice, but it wasn't as if he had any other way of checking in the summers. 

Harry re-took his seat, feeling hope bubble up in his chest. He tried to repress it. Hope was a good way to be disappointed, he'd learned. Still, this was the first contact he had had with anyone magical since leaving King's Cross. Even if it was bad news - Voldemort was likely to be more active since he'd been revealed at the Ministry - it would still be _news_. And so, hope found a place to take root against Harry's wishes as he unrolled the scroll of parchment to read. He recognized the handwriting immediately. He'd seen in on chalkboards for a full year, after all, and in the occasional letter since then. Remus had a funny way of making his Rs, and there were three of them in "Dear Harry".

_Dear Harry,_

_I am so sorry to do this to you. I just can't do this anymore._

Harry's blood ran cold. He had been prepared for bad news, but this didn't sound like news of the war. More frantically, he continued reading.

_Dear Harry,_

_I am so sorry to do this to you. I just can't do this anymore. Everyone has a breaking point, you see. After your parents died, when I believed Peter dead and Sirius the cause of it all, I thought I had found mine. I have discovered these last weeks that I hadn't. _

_Meeting you in your third year, and later discovering Sirius' innocence, returned a life to me that I hadn't had in twelve years. For twelve years, I had lived with an emptiness in my soul which nothing could fill. The Marauders were not only my friends, they were my family. They were the only family I had anymore, and I had lost them, and nothing could make that okay. For twelve years I lived with a hole inside of me, and then it was miraculously filled again. Sirius was innocent. He was not free, but even for those months that he spent in warmer climes he was within my reach and I was within his. For two years, for two all-too-brief years, I had a part of my family back. I was happy, and it had become such a foreign feeling that I didn't know what to do with it at first. Eventually, I became accustomed to it only to have it torn from me again. _

_There can be no misunderstanding this time, no false death, no revelation to fill this emptiness that has taken hold of me again. We saw Sirius fall through the veil, and he can never come back out. I know that you still live, but I cannot put the burden of supporting me on your shoulders. As much as you feel grown, and as much as you have experience in your life, you are still young. I remember, distantly, what it was to be sixteen. Too many people will place burdens on you that you do not deserve, because of a prophecy, because once upon a time you lived. I could not live with myself if I were another of them. _

_I cannot, though, return to living with that emptiness. _

Harry swallowed a lump in his throat. He couldn't- he must be misunderstanding. Remus would explain. One day, a long time in the future, Harry would laugh with him over this horrible misunderstanding. He kept reading.

_I cannot, though, return to living with that emptiness. My breaking point was not losing my family the first time, when deep down inside me I carried a kernel of hope that Sirius may still be loyal, but losing him again when I know beyond doubt that he cannot return to me. _

_Advice from me at this time may seem artificial but I feel that I must give it, futile though it may be. Hold your friends close, Harry. When you disagree, talk through your problems and resolve them. Sirius and I argued, the last time that I saw him before the battle. We never had a chance to resolve that, and I regret it dearly. Without that regret, it is possible that I could bear this burden as I have every other burden in my life. It is also possible that it wouldn't be enough, but I know without doubt that I regret it deeply. Don't open yourself to this same regret, Harry, I beg of you._

Harry's breathing quickened, tears pricking at his eyes. He didn't want to believe what he was reading, but it was becoming harder and harder to deny. This was a goodbye.

_Don't open yourself to this same regret, Harry, I beg of you._

_I have registered a will, leaving all I have to you. It will not help. I know this because half of what I am leaving to you was left to me by Sirius. You, however, are the only person remaining to leave things to._

Harry tore his eyes away from the letter. He hadn't reached the end, yet, but he knew now, beyond doubt and denial, what this letter was. There was no time. It might already be too late, but Harry would never be able to forgive himself if he didn't try. He hadn't been able to hold onto Sirius, but he might save Remus.

"Hedwig, girl," Harry said breathlessly, choked by emotion. He ripped the lid of his trunk open, tore through it until he found his Firebolt and invisibility cloak. A piece of parchment with Remus' name on it later, and he was thrusting it on his owl. "Take this to Remus, girl." She barked at him, but didn't take off. "Hedwig, take this to Remus' house!"

His snowy owl took off, then, and Harry wrapped himself in the cloak before taking flight in her wake. He had no idea where Remus lived, but Hedwig could find anyone. All Harry could think as he flew was that he had to get there in time. Hedwig seemed to sense his urgency, or maybe she was just fast. It pushed Harry's talents on a broomstick to keep up while simultaneously keeping his cloak wrapped tightly underneath himself and the broomstick, but he _had _to manage it. 

Remus lived blessedly close to Harry's part of Surrey. After only a forty minute flight, Hedwig banked down towards a little house isolated by trees and Harry followed. Forty minutes. If Remus had sent the owl before- it would have been at most two hours ago. He might have made it on time. Harry was sure in that moment that he would give anything to have made it on time. He couldn't be too late.

He let the cloak loose as he dipped below the treeline and landed hard, not slowing down other than to stumble as he raced towards the door. It was locked, but a simple _alohomora_ opened it. If the Ministry noticed his underage magic here, at an adult wizard's house, he would deal with that later. No longer caring one bit about the Reasonable Restriction for Underage Wizardry, Harry cast a _point me_. Every second could count. He couldn't be too late.

His wand pointed towards a door at the back right of the sitting room which was swung closed but not latched. The only sounds as Harry raced through the sitting room were made by him and Hedwig. Remus didn't ask who was in his house. It didn't matter. He couldn't be too late.

Harry swung open the door to Remus' bedroom. The older man was lying on the bed, fully dressed. Sleeping on top of the covers. He was _sleeping_, Harry told himself, even as his heart sank into his stomach and he crossed the room.

"Remus! Remus, wake up!" Harry felt his chest. He wasn't breathing. "_Rennervate! Rennervate! Episky! Rennervate!_" Harry tried desperately, again and again. He didn't know any healing spells. Remus wasn't breathing. He choked on a sob. "Remus, wake up!"

He felt for a pulse, and didn't find one. Harry remembered seeing someone press on another's chest on the telly once, when their heart wasn't beating. He didn't know if it was real, if it worked, but he had to try. He positioned himself over Remus' - over Remus - and placed his hands on the chest that refused to rise. Over and over he pushed down on it, knowing all along that it wasn't working but unable to stop until he'd exhausted himself totally and he collapsed over Remus' body in tears. 

"No," he sobbed. "No, no, no, no... I can't be too late. Remus."

Harry didn't know how long he cried. At some point, Hedwig flew in through the door he'd left open and landed on the headboard of the bed, cooing sadly at him. When he could bring himself to let go of Remus, of Remus' body, with one hand he stroked her feathers for some comfort. They stayed there until Harry had run out of tears, until he'd wrung every bit of emotion out of himself and gone numb. 

"I have to. I have to tell someone. I can't just leave him here, who knows how long it would take for someone to find him."

Harry honestly had no idea how to go about contacting someone for an emergency in the magical world. An owl would be too slow, so they must use the floo, but what were you supposed to do if there was no floo where you were? It didn't matter. Harry was sure Remus had a floo. Who did you call? The Aurors? What would their floo address be? Why didn't Hogwarts teach this to muggle-raised students? It seemed pretty important, now. Harry considered contacting the Order, but he remembered someone saying, in the Hospital wing after Sirius had died, that they weren't sure if Grimmauld Place was still secure. He didn't know where else they would be. The sky had gone dark before Harry left Surrey, and now it was even later. Would anyone be at the Ministry?

St. Mungo's. Harry was sure he remembered a floo there when he'd visited Mr. Weasley last Christmas, and they would be open all night, wouldn't they? They were a hospital. The floo address was probably just St. Mungo's. He found the floo powder on the mantle and threw a handful in. 

The last time Harry had used the floo, Kreacher had answered and Sirius had died. Remus was already dead, but Harry didn't like the parallel. With his head in the fireplace, Harry saw the St. Mungo's waiting room at ankle height. Only one person was there waiting, and Harry could only just see the front desk if he angled his head. 

"I need help," he called out weakly. "Help, please."

A young witch in lavender robes bustled over to the floo and knelt in front of him. 

"What can I do for you, sir?" Her voice was tired, but not unkind. There was a clock behind her. It was two in the morning. 

"I need-" Harry choked. "He's _dead_."

The woman paused momentarily. "Who is dead?"

"Remus. Remus Lupin." Harry had to fight with every word that came out of his mouth. 

"What happened?"

"I don't know what he did. I got here too late."

"What he did?" she prompted.

"He wrote me a letter." Once the words started, once Harry didn't have to fight, they came pouring out. "He wrote me, it was a suicide note, I came here as soon as I realized, on my broom, but it was too late. He's _gone_."

"I'm sorry for your loss, young man. Where are you? I can send Healers to your location." Harry saw her swish her wand, and a small patronus darted away. He bet that was how he could contact someone if he didn't have a floo. But what about people who couldn't cast the patronus charm? He'd been told it was hard. When- when Remus had taught him.

"I don't know. I don't know the floo address. I wrote his name on a parchment and followed my owl on my broom. I made sure I wasn't seen. I don't know where I am."

The witch sighed and nodded, looking like she desperately wanted to pat him on the shoulder. Harry realized he must look wretched, for a woman who worked in a hospital and saw death and dismemberment every day to be so sympathetic. "You'll have to hold the floo open then, for them to come through. There's no other way I can get Healers to you. Have you ever held a floo open before?" Harry shook his head. "You'll put your arm though, then withdraw your head and move as far to the side of the fireplace as you can." Harry saw the bottoms of two lime green Healer's robes come up behind the witch. "The Healers may run into you if the fireplace is small, but if you're hurt at all we can fix you right up. You shouldn't even have to come to the hospital."

Harry nodded, and followed her directions. Both of the Healers, a man and a woman, tripped over his knee where he couldn't pull it back far enough because of an old armchair.

"You can let the floo close now, young man," the male Healer said. Harry pulled his arm out. "Where is he?"

Slowly, Harry stood up from the floor. "This way," he mumbled as he led the Healers to Remus' bedroom. Hedwig was still on the headboard. 

"That your owl?" the female Healer asked him, while the other began casting spells over Remus' body. 

"Yeah. Hedwig."

"She's beautiful."

Harry only nodded. 

"My name is Clarissa. That's Roger. He's the certified Healer here; I'm still in training."

"And you're meant to be paying attention, Clarissa, for your training. Run the diagnostics, see if your results match mine."

Clarissa nodded, and smiled sadly at Harry before trading places with Roger. Harry didn't know how he felt about Remus being a training subject. On one hand, it seemed wrong to treat him so casually. But Remus had loved to teach. Every time Harry saw him, it seemed like he had something to teach. Maybe it was fitting. "A fatal dose of concentrated nightshade berry, a pain potion, and dreamless sleep," Clarissa reported softly. She paused. "He wouldn't have suffered." Harry knew that last part was for him, but it was a cold comfort.

Roger nodded in the affirmative. "Do you know what happened, young man?"

"I- he wrote me a letter."

"A suicide note?" Harry nodded. "Do you have it, still? We'll need a copy to verify, or the Aurors will have to come and do a full investigation."

Harry patted his pockets. "I left it in my bedroom." Roger looked to him expectantly, and Harry started in realization. "I don't live here. I came because of the letter."

It took a few minutes to work out the next details. Harry had to explain that he didn't have a floo, because he lived in a muggle house and he'd gotten here by broomstick. He'd never given anyone a location for apparition before, so the Healer had to explain how. Roger would apparate Harry back to Privet Drive, and there he would make a copy of Remus' letter. Meanwhile, Clarissa would transport Remus - Remus' body - to St. Mungo's to be released to his next of kin. Harry didn't tell her that Remus didn't have anyone but him. 

The Dursleys weren't happy about a wizard bringing Harry back at half two in the morning. Harry couldn't bring himself to care. Roger made a copy of the letter when Harry showed it to him, and made sure to give the original back. Harry trudged to his room with Uncle Vernon shouting behind him, but didn't hear a word the man said.

Harry laid down in bed, but despite how exhausted he felt he couldn't fall asleep. When Hedwig made it back - a forty minute flight - he gave it up and sat back up. The letter was on his nightstand. He still hadn't finished reading it. What else had he wanted Harry to know?

_You, however, are the only person remaining to leave things to. There is my house, old and rundown as it is, and its contents. A bank vault with mostly Sirius' money. Most precious are the photos I have. I wanted to show them to you, but the time was never right. There are photos of all of us, there, when we were still alive and happy. The family which you should have had. A few, I sent copies of to Hagrid in your first year, but there are more. Cherish those._

_You have your friends, Harry. The family you've built for yourself. I wish that I was strong enough to stay for you, but I know that you will be strong enough to survive in my absence. I have never been able to be as present in your life as I should have been. The excuses don't matter anymore. _

_By the time you receive this letter, it will already be too late for me. That was by design. Please, Harry, do not blame yourself. This is the culmination of processes which began when you were just an infant. As mature as you are, you are still a child, and it should never have been your responsibility to save others. To save Sirius. To save me. None of this was your fault. Sirius' death wasn't your fault, either, Harry. Please don't blame yourself. Voldemort has tricked a great many people - intelligent people, cunning people, noble and loyal people. It wasn't your fault. It still isn't. _

_I look forward to seeing my friends again on the other side, but I hope that I don't see you there for many, many years. Survive this war. I know you are strong enough. Lean on your friends, fall in love, have a family and teach the next generation of Marauders' children how to be as brave and good as you are._

_You are loved, Harry. I'm sorry that I have to say goodbye._


	2. You Said You Loved Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets Dumbledore in King's Cross.

Harry was ejected from the pensieve and into the headmaster's office, his emotions a tangled swirl that no one could have hoped to make sense of. 

Not that it mattered.

He had to die.

He had to _die_.

Harry left the headmaster's office, the office which had belonged to Dumbledore who was good and Snape who was bad until he went into the pensieve and found out. Harry found out that Dumbledore had planned his death and Snape had been angry on his behalf. But Snape had always been an evil git and Dumbledore had-

He made his way to the Forbidden Forest, slipping out of the castle under the invisibility cloak. It was partly so that no one could stop him. If Harry was a horcrux then of course he would go to his death. It wasn't the first time he had put his life on the line for the world - just the first time that it was a sure thing. It didn't mean that Harry was happy to die, was unaffected by this horrible realization. It was just that Dumbledore had been teaching him to do what was right instead of what was easy since the beginning, and making Voldemort mortal again was right. 

It wasn't easy.

That was why he couldn't risk anyone stopping him. They wouldn't understand, and that was the second reason Harry didn't want to be seen and couldn't say goodbye. Because without seeing those memories, given to him by Snape, they could never understand why he had to do this, or why he felt the way he felt about it. Maybe even if they saw the memories, they wouldn't understand what Harry was feeling. They would have needed to be there every time Harry met with Dumbledore, who treated him like a grandchild. They would have needed to know the way that Harry was starved for affection before coming to Hogwarts and _how much _it had meant to him that Dumbledore had paid him attention. They hadn't grieved Dumbledore in the same way that Harry had, after he'd died. They'd been sad, but he had been an icon and an authority figure to them. Their grief hadn't been so personal. And even if they knew all of that, maybe they could never understand how he was feeling. Harry knew it all, and he didn't understand. Picking apart this emotional tangle would take time that Harry didn't have. There were only a few minutes left until the deadline Voldemort had given for the hiatus of battle, and if Harry didn't make it to the Forbidden Forest before that time was up then more people would die.

Harry was under no illusion that Voldemort would leave the rest of Hogwarts be once he was dead, but he would enter the fight himself after unknowingly breaking his last anchor to this world. Not his last, but Harry had told Neville to kill the snake, and Ron and Hermione knew too. His hidden anchor. He would become mortal, during the fight, and someone could deal the final blow much more quickly than if Harry had to find Voldemort on the battlefield and be killed in front of everyone. 

Once Harry was safely ensconced in the forest, he took the invisibility cloak off. He put it in his pocket. Hopefully, Voldemort would be satisfied to leave his corpse whole, and he wouldn't find or ruin the cloak. When his body was returned to, found by, his surviving loved ones for burial, Ron or Hermione could have the cloak. One day they could pass it on to their own children, whether that was with each other or other people. He had told Ron in the Forest of Dean that they were his family. It was fitting that they would have his family heirloom. 

Harry's thoughts turned to his parents. To his mother.

His mother had died. To save him, she had died in the hope that he would live. How had she felt, once she knew she would die? Was it like this? How would she feel now, knowing that she had died to save a doomed child? She had been twenty-one. Harry would never see eighteen. He was walking to his death at seventeen years old. She had bought him sixteen years, but ten of them had been spent in a cupboard, and one had been starving and cold in a tent. That left five good years, but the magical world had been at war for the last three, and there had been an entire year contending with Voldemort's horcrux masquerading as the Heir of Slytherin, another living in fear and anger directed towards the wrong Marauder, another fighting for his life in a rigged tournament. 

Had his mother's death been worth it at all?

If she had known, would she have stood aside? If she had stood aside when Voldemort told her to, he would have died, but she could have gone on. Eventually she might have remarried and had more children. She was brilliant, everyone said, she may have cured dragonpox or lycanthropy, or invented something he couldn't even imagine. Instead, she died to give him sixteen difficult years. It seemed like her life could have been so much greater than his. Longer, certainly. People always told him of her love for him, but Harry couldn't comprehend being loved so much that a short, difficult life meant more than what she could have been. 

He arrived at the clearing.

* * *

Harry awoke in King's Cross. Naked. Just as he was thinking that he'd had this dream before, though usually it was in Hogwarts, and never in a train station that was so white and clean, and he'd much rather go into the afterlife clothed, a robe appeared about his body. 

And Harry remembered that he'd died. 

Voldemort had postured and gloated, but Harry hadn't fought back. And he'd died to the same flash of green that had stolen his mother and haunted his childhood nightmares. At least he couldn't remember any pain. So little had been painless for him, but death had been. 

Beneath a bench there was a baby, shriveled and burned. All Harry could think was that it looked very much like the body Voldemort had inhabited before the ritual in the graveyard. 

"You cannot help it," a voice said from behind. 

"I wasn't intending to, sir," Harry said without turning around. It was a voice he hadn't heard in a year since the man's death, and then had heard again in the pensieve so recently. Dumbledore didn't respond. "It's the horcrux, isn't it? A bit of Voldemort."

"Indeed. But you have always had a desire to help those in dire situations."

_Had Dumbledore always understood him so little?_ "Not- not Voldemort. I held my hands against Quirrell's face while he burned, stabbed the diary with a fang while his shade screamed. I spent the last year hunting horcruxes and now I've _died _so he can be killed. I felt some sympathy for the tortured child that became him, but he was a monster by sixteen. Why would I pity him at this point? I've never even had much desire to help my enemies, really. I've used the cruciatus curse on a Death Eater twice - the second time it actually worked. I was willing to kill Sirius before I found out the truth, and I only spared Pettigrew so that Sirius could benefit. I _sliced Draco Malfoy open _just last year, and yeah I didn't know exactly what the spell would do, didn't know that it would nearly kill him, but I knew it wasn't a tickling charm. I knew it would hurt him." Harry finally turned to face Dumbledore, who seemed to be at a loss for words. "How long did you know about it?"

Dumbledore looked at Harry gravely. "I supervised the medical examination Poppy gave you, after your parents were killed and Hagrid retrieved you from the wreckage of your home, and there was a Dark presence attached to your scar which she could not understand or explain. As I told you when I taught you about the horcruxes, the seed was planted when you showed me the diary you had destroyed. I made the horrible connection that summer, and confirmed it early in your third school year."

"So you've known since I was thirteen that I had to die. How old was that memory? When did you tell Snape?"

"Just after the end of your fifth year. Before I retrieved you to visit Slughorn, when my hand was initially cursed and I knew I would not live to tell you."

Harry's voice hardened, almost imperceptibly. "You could have told me at any time."

"Would you have done what you had needed to? If I had not held the information back, if I gave you time to lose your nerve?"

"YES!" Harry shouted now, anger breaking through the swirl of emotions in his chest for a moment before retreating back and leaving him deflated. "I did it once before. I didn't expect to _win _in my first year, when I went to save the stone. I was expecting to die protecting it, but I went because I knew a world where Voldemort lived wasn't any kind of world at all."

"Perhaps I underestimated you. You did not find the resurrection stone which I left to you, believing you would need support in order to give yourself up, and yet you did." Harry looked at him blankly. "It was encased in the snitch. Enchanted to open, based on its flesh memory of when you caught it in your mouth."

"You said you loved me," Harry said quietly. "When you told me about the prophecy, and I asked why you hadn't told me sooner, you said you cared for me too much to give me that burden. But you didn't even know what kind of person I was. You still don't. Help for my enemies, not being able to do what was necessary to see them defeated... And just _weeks _after telling me that, you made plans for my death and you couldn't even say it to my face." Dumbledore remained silent until Harry brokenly asked, "Why?"

"You needed an answer to your question which wouldn't further upset you in an unstable moment. Telling you that it was out of care was gentler for you than telling you I believed you too weak to handle the knowledge."

"Did you ever care about me?"

"In the beginning, yes."

"Then how- how could you do this to someone you cared for? When did you stop caring?"

"When I discovered that you were a horcrux, and knew where I must lead you, I began to harden my heart in order to make it possible. There were moments of caring, after that. I did try to give you a refuge in Sirius, at the end of your third year, though I could not have let you go to live with him permanently had he managed to secure his freedom."

"Why not?"

"Living with the Dursleys kept you safe from Voldemort, and also ensured that you would continue to look to me for guidance before others. It made it easier to guide you on your path."

Harry crumbled. He had always responded with anger first hurt later, but somewhere in this conversation he had reached his limit. "You never gave anyone a straight answer in your life, why are you telling me all of this now?"

"You are the Master of Death, and we stand together in Death's realm. Here, I cannot lie to you or obfuscate my answers."

"So, if you weren't forced to, you'd still be lying to me?"

"Yes. Even when I still allowed myself to care for you, my secrets were important to me. Holding the most information allowed me to have the most control, both in politics and in war."

"Would you do it again, or do you regret it?"

"If I believed it the best way to ensure Voldemort's defeat, then yes, I would do it again."

"I really thought you cared," Harry mumbled, sinking to the ground and burying his face in his knees. "I thought you cared. I cared about you, but it was all a lie for you."

Harry took several minutes to process, before another question occurred to him. "Why are we both here, in King's Cross, like this? This can't be the whole afterlife, where is everyone?"

"We are standing on the edge of Death's realm, because you have a choice to make. It takes the form of King's Cross, because the train station represents transition in the collective minds of the British magical world. I am here because someone had to speak to you on Death's behalf about your choice, and I was one of the candidates most heavily on your mind. The other was your mother, but she sent me because she wanted me to be forced to answer to you. You will see her, and all of your other loved ones, when you cross over properly."

"What do you mean, the Master of Death? What choice do I have to make? And how do I cross over?"

"You have united the Deathly Hallows, a feat sought out by hundreds but never achieved, without realizing. The cloak you inherited is Death's own. The stone, I left to you, and though you did not find it you carry it still. And the Elder Wand, you won from young Mr. Malfoy, after he won it from me. You can choose, as the Master of Death, whether to cross over now or to sacrifice only the horcrux in your place. The killing curse must claim a soul, but it does not need to claim two. If you choose to cross over, you'll do so by boarding a train."

He could choose. The revelation was almost as wrenching as finding out that he had to die. Here, in Death's realm, he'd been at peace with at least that much of this situation. "You could have _led _with that! Would you have even told me, if you weren't forced to answer?"

"Yes. I am not so hardened as to force you to remain here in Death's realm unnecessarily."

"That's _something_, at least," Harry ranted. "It's good to know where the line is."

No longer distracted, Harry returned to his thoughts. He honestly wanted to stay. His death had been painless, and the way his life tended to go he had no guarantee that his next fatal encounter would be as easy. Voldemort wasn't dead, yet. He could still die in this battle, savaged by Greyback or crushed by rubble like Lavender or Fred. And to see his _mother_\- But then he recalled his thoughts as he'd walked in the forest. He had to _try _to honor her sacrifice. If he died painfully in the battle, at least he could meet her saying that he'd done his best. And he'd been in pain before. It would be temporary.

* * *

Harry woke again in the forest. Voldemort sent Malfoy's mum to check him for signs of life, and a mother's love saved Harry again. He dueled Voldemort, and the Elder Wand wouldn't kill its master. And Harry lived.

And for the rest of his life, Harry had to live with the knowledge that Dumbledore had manipulated him to his death without regret. And for the rest of his life, Harry couldn't stop caring for the grandfatherly figure who had shown him a veneer of kindness while he did it.


	3. You Weren't Here When I Needed You The Most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Pettigrew made his choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This installment is a day late, sorry! I had a thing. The weekend chapters might be a bit off schedule, because I have plans, but I'll get caught back up come Monday/Tuesday.

Peter Pettigrew huddled into a dark, dingy corner somewhere in the depths of Knockturn Alley, wondering what came next for him. What life did he have left? He had joined the Death Eaters because the Dark Lord was _winning_, and now the most powerful wizard he'd ever encountered had been laid low by an infant.

Peter knew that the Dark Lord wasn't dead, knew that he was immortal, so he'd retrieved the yew wand from Harry's nursery in the hopes of beginning to make up for leading his master to whatever state he was in now that he was not dead but was nowhere to be found. He hadn't touched Harry, the child who could destroy his master and leave nothing behind. He wouldn't risk himself that way. Peter had then retreated to this disgusting corner to plan his next moves. The other Death Eaters would no doubt believe that he'd betrayed their Lord and led him to this fate intentionally, though in truth he was as shocked as they would be when they heard. They would not allow him to go unpunished, though, if they found him. And soon, the Order would know of his betrayal. The secrecy with which they'd switched Secret Keepers would buy him some time, but unless he could stop Sirius telling the truth-

The plan occurred to him as easily as any schoolboy prank. Framing Sirius for murder may not be in the Marauder spirit in truth, but it wasn't the most malicious prank one of them had ever played. 

Peter looked up from where he'd been tracing a pattern in the dirt. It took several seconds for him to process the wrongness of seeing James Potter standing in front of him in full living color.

"You're dead," Peter said too plainly. He might have been in shock. James nodded. "You're not a ghost," he continued as he reached out as if to touch his friend before changing his mind and pulling back. "How are you here?"

James didn't answer, only looked on at Peter impassively, and it truly started to sink in just how _wrong _this was because James had never looked impassive a day in his life. He'd worn every emotion proudly and without shame, and seeing him expressionless was alien. 

"So you've come to, what? Not to gloat or to shout at me, because you'd have started by now."

James looked on.

"To make me feel guilty? If that's why, then you can bugger off. I don't feel guilty." Peter paused, but James predictably continued his silence. It felt like a challenge. "I _don't_. I don't and I won't. I made my choices, and I came to terms with them ages ago. Mary, Dorcas, the Prewetts, Benjy, Caradoc, the Boneses. I killed them all, setting them up to fall. What's two more?"

That was not true. It was true that he'd set all of those people up, of course. He'd been spying within the Order for nearly a year and a half. While his primary goal had been to find a way to breach the protections around each safehouse the Potters moved into before they moved again, information on the Order's movements had helped to appease his master each time he'd failed to do so. 

What wasn't true was that James and Lily were just _two more_. Lily, Peter had honestly been happy to be rid of. But _James_. James was the center of Peter's world for so many years. James was special. 

And now James was dead, and was inexplicably standing in Knockturn Alley and staring at Peter with that emotionless face. 

So he felt some guilt. About that.

It didn't matter, though, because Peter had made his choice. And when Peter Pettigrew, Gryffindor, Marauder, made a choice he refused to show any shame for it. This apparition of James couldn't change that, no matter what it was. 

Peter sat in silence for several minutes, then, trying to look anywhere but at James while James stared unblinkingly back at him. 

The fracture in Peter's world that had led to him joining the Dark Lord's army had begun years ago. It had begun with James, except that James hadn't done anything wrong. James never could, Peter thought, because he was perfect. James was a shining example of everything that was good and right in the world, so of course Peter had made him the center of his. Others might have been envious of James' radiance, but Peter had basked in it. "Life was perfect," Peter told James. "Life was perfect, and then Evans changed you and ruined it."

"I'd been trying to prevent it for years, you know. Ever since fourth year, when you started asking her out in earnest, I worked to run interference. I made sure that she only saw your biggest moments, the ones that she would never understand and would want to change. I kept her away from you because I knew she would destroy you, and the rest of us through you."

"And I was right. When blasted Albus Dumbledore made you co-heads and I couldn't control how she saw you anymore, she fell for you right away. I knew that she would - even if she didn't understand the degree of your perfection, no one could have been immune. But once she fell for you, she changed you, and she doomed the Marauders. She made you serious, made you leave behind your senses of humor and fun. And she took you, she took your time."

"Everything was Lily's fault. Lily created the fault lines through the Marauders, which the other Death Eaters used when I was recruited."

"You're dead now, because of Lily."

Peter paused, breathing heavily, and realized how deranged he'd sounded in his ranting. The entire time, James had stood there without a reaction. Staring. Peter stood up. Sirius would be looking for him by now, and he needed the confrontation to be public rather than in this hidden away corner. 

"Because of Lily, you weren't there when I needed you most."


	4. I Can't Just Sit Here and Watch You Do This to Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the war, Hermione's only purpose was her boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This next prompt was supposed to be "How are you not terrified?" but I couldn't come up with anything that wasn't too hopeful for this mess of angst, so I went looking elsewhere for a replacement prompt. This comes from a tumblr screenshot with a list of angst prompts, but the username is cut off so I can't say who wrote them. My prompt struggle is also why I'm getting back on track with these so much later than I expected to.

Hermione dropped into an armchair in the flat she shared with her two closest friends, exhaustion in her bones following a long day at work. The flat was quiet, which wasn't necessarily a good sign but which she vowed to take advantage of while it lasted. Her eyes fluttered closed as she took shallow breaths through her mouth to better ignore the sourness in the air that came from too many cleaning charms and no actual cleaning. She'd accepted ages ago that she didn't have the time or energy to do anything about that. Taking care of her boys and keeping a roof over their heads took priority. 

Her few moments of peace ended when she heard one of her boys stumble into the room. Hermione opened her eyes to the sight of red hair and blue eyes just inches from her face. She could tell exactly how much he'd had to drink by the way he wavered. "Hello, Ron. Where's Harry?"

"'E's passed out."

Hermione frowned. "Already?" This garnered no response, but she hadn't expected it to. Ron had no sense of time when he was this far gone. Only his own biological clock. "I brought home takeout tonight. Help yourself," she said as she stood and maneuvered him into a chair. "I'm going to go see if he won't wake up for a meal."

Ron was several inches deep in a chicken curry by the time Hermione left the room. Unsurprising, since even with his famously large appetite he wouldn't have eaten since breakfast. Her boys only ate when she fed them, which is one reason she was concerned for Harry right now. He'd slept through breakfast, and he'd never had much weight he could afford to lose.

The savior of the magical world was lying flat on his back, fully clothed and on top of his sheets, snoring loudly with a mostly empty bottle of Ogden's Finest dangling loosely in his hand. It was a familiar sight for Hermione. She took the bottle and set it on the nightstand. Harry didn't react, and her attempts to shake him awake received only vague grunts. With a sigh, Hermione rolled her friend onto his side and propped him there with the wealth of pillows that lived on his bed for just that reason. He'd get sick and drown in his own vomit if it weren't for her, and no one wanted to see a headline saying that a bottle of firewhiskey managed what Voldemort never could.

She'd set some dinner aside for him in case he woke up hungry later. 

The sitting room, when Hermione returned to it, was empty aside from the discarded takeaway containers. A quick glance at the empty loo confirmed that Ron had left the flat, likely to go to the pubs with some of the other Gryffindors in their year. It was Friday, after all. Ronald had also eaten all of the food. Hermione had eaten at her desk before leaving work, or she never would have left Ron alone with it, but that didn't leave anything for Harry once he'd slept off the drink and he hadn't eaten all day. Mentally, Hermione ran through what they had in the kitchen that she could give him.

Hermione woke up to a crash in the loo, startled to realize she'd fallen asleep in the armchair. An absent _tempus _charm told her it was half past one. Ronald wouldn't be home yet for at least an hour, which meant Harry had probably risen. Good. 

She found Harry leaning over the toilet bowl, though he didn't appear to have been sick yet, surrounded by broken glass. The lack of alcohol mixed in with the bottle's shards told her that he'd finished it off when he woke up. She vanished the glass and knelt by her friend, rubbing soothing circles on his back. "How are you feeling?"

Harry just groaned.

"How about you have a stomach soothing potion and some water?" Hermione didn't wait for Harry's response before summoning the potion and a glass. In this state, she could get him to do just about anything. She'd tried giving him sobering potions in the past. While he would take it from her, as soon as the potion did its work he became very angry and went right back to drinking himself into a stupor. Now, she just treated his symptoms. 

Once the stomach soother had done its job, Hermione guided Harry into the kitchen so that she could make him eat some eggs and toast. Tomorrow morning, before Harry and Ron woke up, she'd go grocery shopping. While she fried the eggs and held a mostly one-sided conversation, Harry went into the liquor cabinet and took a long pull from the last bottle of Ogden's within. 

Hermione bit her lip. She hated when they ran out of liquor. It left her forced to decide whether she'd buy more, further enabling her boys' drinking, or if she'd allow them to go for it themselves while drunk or hungover and risk any number of accidents or public embarrassments. Usually, Hermione would tell herself that she was going with option two, and that maybe they wouldn't go to get the drink if she could coddle them through the hangover, and then her resolve would crumble in the end when she thought about one of her boys splinching himself. 

Harry ate what she put in front of him, to Hermione's relief, before taking his bottle and grunting what was probably meant to be a goodbye. Hermione winced as he stumbled into the door frame, and then cleaned the kitchen before retiring to her own bedroom.

She looked forward to tomorrow. It was Saturday, which meant she wouldn't be at work all day and she'd actually be able to spend some time with her boys that didn't involve herding drunks. 

Parvarti Patil worked the weekend shifts at Hermione's preferred grocer. It was always awkward, seeing her old roommate there, but going shopping after work wasn't an option. Hermione ducked her head in embarrassment when Parvarti gave her a curious look. She certainly didn't look her best - Ron had woken her again when he came in last night, so she'd only gotten a few hours of sleep in her efforts to do the shopping before the boys woke up, and she couldn't remember when she'd last had time to fully shampoo and condition her wild hair. She just piled it into a bun when she went to work and hoped no one noticed. 

Harry's bank key paid for the food. If Hermione had pounds instead of galleons, she could escape Parvarti by going to a muggle grocer. She'd gotten greens and pasta and other healthy ingredients that she hoped to prepare this weekend, as well as pre-made dishes in stasis that she had some hope of her boys eating while she was at work and, reluctantly, several bottles of firewhiskey. Hermione and Parvarti made stilted small talk as the food was totaled and packaged and charged to Gringott's. 

If Hermione hurried home, she could have breakfast made in time for her boys to wake up.

"Thanks for that, Hermione," Harry said to her after lunch. His smile was grateful, and his eyes were still relatively clear. 

Ron set down his fork, having finished his second plate. "Yeah, Hermione, you're the best."

"A real lifesaver."

Hermione smiled back, but wondered if Harry realized how literally that could apply. She was proud to say she'd fed her boys two meals today, and she basked in being needed. Being useful. For most of the week her boys needed her so much they didn't realize everything she did for them, but on the weekends she always felt appreciated. While she cleaned the kitchen, Harry and Ron settled in to listen to a quidditch game on the wireless. They invited her to have a drink with them, but she declined. Hermione hadn't drunk with them since she'd realized that any time they drank they were going to need someone to take care of them. Those occasional nights of babysitting just after the end of the war had become more frequent, slowly, until it was a daily thing.

Hermione knew it wasn't healthy for them, but any time she had tried to sober them up or talk to them about it, there had been screaming matches and the occasional bruise left behind. Hermione had decided that they'd stop when they were ready, and that it wasn't something she could handle for them at any rate. Everyone had to deal with the fallout of the war in their own way, after all. When they were ready to admit that this was unhealthy and they needed help, she'd be here waiting for them.

After dinner, the boys went out again with Seamus and Dean. Hermione was invited along, but declined again. She planned to prep some meals for the next week so that she didn't have to get takeaway every night, and then clean the flat. If there was time before the boys got home, she might even take a bath. There was a knock at the door, and Hermione assumed that one of the boys had forgotten his wand again and needed her to fetch it. 

Parvarti was a surprise.

"This is an intervention," the other girl said to Hermione, stepping inside the flat without waiting for a proper invite.

Hermione blinked, letting the door swing closed. "I- what do you mean?"

Parvarti's nose wrinkled in disgust. Hermione was offended - their flat wasn't _that _bad, was it? "You're fading away, Hermione. Every week that you come in for groceries, you've lost just a little bit more of yourself. Whatever it is that you're doing is killing you slowly. I've already lost my best friend to the war, so I can't just sit here and watch you do this to yourself."

"Sorry? I'm not doing anything to myself."

"Clearly you are. I thought it might be alcohol this morning, when you bought all that whiskey, but you're sober so that's not it. But people don't look as lost as you do right now unless something is wrong."

"I'm fine," Hermione said, and wondered at how it felt like a lie. Sure, she was tired and overworked, but she'd always pushed herself harder than the people around her. "If you need to stay awhile and assure yourself of the fact, then you're welcome, but I've got things to do and can't spend time standing at the door and chatting."

Hermione swept back into the kitchen, Parvarti just behind, and returned to her meal prep. 

"You live with Harry and Ron, don't you?" Parvarti asked after a few minutes of silence. 

"Yes," Hermione answered shortly.

She looked around. "Where are they?"

"They've gone out to the Leaky. It is a Saturday night, after all."

From the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed Parvarti eyeing the two whiskey glasses on the table and flicked her wand. The glasses promptly flew to the sink and started washing themselves, leaving them no longer available for scrutiny. Parvarti didn't say anything, and watched in silence as Hermione finished making several meals and placing them in stasis, then worked to scrub the counters and other surfaces. The kitchen was always where Hermione focused her time for physical cleaning, unwilling to allow it to get to the point of the rest of the flat and make the three of them ill. 

"So what do _you _do on a Saturday night?"

Hermione stopped at the sudden, nonsensical question. "You're watching me do it."

Parvarti shook her head. "No, Hermione. What do you do for yourself? To relax, or enjoy yourself?"

"I'm too busy," Hermione said with a shrug. "Have you seen enough to know that I'm not drinking or potioning myself to death?"

"No, just working yourself there."

Hermione huffed. "My boys need me, and I'm happy to work hard on their behalf."

"While they go out with friends?"

"I could go. I choose not to." Hermione checked the time, and was startled to realize how late it had already gotten. How long had Parvarti just stared at her while she worked? "They'll be home soon. You ought to go."

"Are you not allowed company?"

"I'm perfectly _allowed_," Hermione shot back, getting irritated. Why didn't Parvarti understand? "I just don't need another person underfoot while I'm taking care of them after they've been at the pubs."

Parvarti gave Hermione a pitying look before turning towards the door. "When you're ready to admit that you need help and this is unhealthy, I'll be here for you."


	5. Maybe It's Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgiveness isn't easy, and thirteen years is a long time.

In the Shrieking Shack, Sirius had embraced Remus heartily like the old friends they were. It had been the first human contact Sirius had experienced (as a person - a few people had been willing to pet the _stray dog_ they met on the streets) in twelve years, and he welcomed it gladly.

That was two weeks ago. Sirius had spent his time since escaping on Buckbeak at Remus' cottage, on the headmaster's orders. In the beginning, he had tried to behave as if the last thirteen years hadn't happened. Even in that phase, conversation had been awkward. Stilted, at best. Remus practically oozed guilt, and Sirius couldn't ignore the feelings of betrayal. The atmosphere between the two had steadily worsened.

Sirius had been constantly touch starved as a child, growing up in a home with parents who believed hugging their children after the age of six to be coddling. James had practically introduced him to physical affection, and he'd always sought out that contact at school to make up for what he didn't get from his family. The Marauders had constantly exchanged casual touches, and often cuddled each other on the sofas or sat with their arms touching in the library. It had led to a great many rumors about their sexualities, some which were accurate and some which were not. Thirteen years alone had not made Sirius any less needy, but he refrained from seeking comfort from Remus as their silences grew colder and more uncomfortable. 

In the third week following their reunion, Sirius stopped speaking to Remus altogether. When Remus reached out to comb his fingers through Sirius' hair - finally clean and detangled after thirteen years without a wash, just barely saved from having to cut it all off - Sirius flinched away. In response, Remus had deflated almost entirely and launched into a litany of apologies that Sirius ignored.

"The full moon is tomorrow," Remus said at the end of the fourth week, utterly failing to sound casual. Sirius hadn't spoken a word in eleven days, except when he cried out for James, Lily, and Harry in his sleep. "I spend them in the orchard here. Will you be joining me?"

Sirius gave no response, at first. He was angry, hurt, lost, lonely; overwhelmed with emotions that he couldn't process properly after his prolonged stay with the dementors. Was he so _whatever he was _though, that he would leave Remus to endure the moon alone when he had the ability to ease his friend's pain? He didn't think so, so he nodded tightly just once. From the corner of his eye he saw Remus sag in relief, and he wondered if he'd feel the same way any time soon.

Emotions were simpler as a dog. That was likely why Sirius found himself at the mercy of his soon after he and Remus transformed. What he'd been unable to express as a person, the dog's mind boiled down into something that Sirius could act on. That something was rage, and he found himself lunging for his friend's throat. Remus, still in his right mind thanks to the Wolfsbane potion, barely defended himself from the onslaught. 

The next morning, Sirius left.

Six weeks since the Shrieking Shack, Remus found Sirius in a park in Surrey. 

"Come back, Sirius," he said tiredly to the large dog. "Dumbledore wants to know where to find you, and we can't risk letting anyone else find out where Harry lives." He sniffed. "Also, you're starting to stink again."

The dog huffed, then darted into a bush. There was some rustling, and then a crack as Sirius apparently transformed and apparated. 

Remus was glad to see, when he got home, that his friend had apparated _there _and not just _away_. He was also glad to hear the shower running. Two weeks wasn't thirteen years, but it was too long to sleep outside without washing, and Remus' nose had always been sensitive. What Remus wasn't glad about was the continued silence and avoidance from Sirius. It took him two more days of it to crack.

"I'm _sorry_, Sirius. I should have thought, I should have realized that you'd have never-"

"Yes. You should have," Sirius replied, his voice gravelly. Remus was so surprised to be answered, surprised to hear Sirius speak to him for the first time in nearly a month, that he was struck silent. "I can understand how the public could think that I'd betray James, the people who only ever saw us in public and didn't know us, but how could _you_? You knew us, knew me, knew how much James meant to me and you _absolutely _should have realized that nothing on this earth could make me betray him."

Remus blinked. "I'm-"

"Sorry. I know. You've only said it a hundred times. But right now you're going to let me be angry, because it's taken me six damned weeks to sort through things enough to decide that I have a _right _to feel this way. To feel betrayed."

"Of course you do, Sirius. What can I do to make it up to you?"

"I don't know if you can." Sirius took a sort of vicious pleasure in seeing Remus reel back as if he'd been struck. "Maybe it's too late, and there's nothing to be done."

"Nothing to- Sirius, you're my best friend, we're the only friends we've got left. You'd just let that go?"

"_Just let it go?_" Sirius asked, incredulity thick in his voice as it rose. "As if this is all over some little thing! Thirteen years, Remus! For thirteen years, you _abandoned_ me. Twelve years of being tortured, every day, around the clock, and another year of being hunted while I tried to protect my godson and avenge my brother. We were good friends - best friends - for ten years, Remus, but for thirteen you thought of me as nothing but a traitor. I hoped, in the early days, that you would come to see me. That you'd come in, demanding answers, and I could explain. Even if you couldn't have done anything for me, at least you'd have known the truth. But you never came. Did you even think about it? Did you ever try."

Dumbly, Remus shook his head. Sirius didn't know if it was in answer to his question, or denial of what he was saying, but he ploughed on.

"It's too late, Remus. It's thirteen years too late for you to realize, and I don't think there's anything that you can do to make up for that. I came back here in case Dumbledore comes looking for me, in case he needs to find me for Harry's sake. I didn't come back for you, so just let it rest, Remus."

Before Remus could answer, Sirius had shut himself in the spare bedroom and cast a powerful locking charm on the door with the spare wand he'd gotten when he first came to the cottage. The door stood between them, a physical representation of the barrier that stood between the once-friends.

Resentment, mistakes that couldn't be undone, and thirteen long years.


End file.
